


Antlers and Ivy

by violetclarity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Daily Prophet, Draco works in the Goblin Liaison Office, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 09:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14493711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetclarity/pseuds/violetclarity
Summary: The thing is, Draco has always known he wouldn’t be able to marry his soulmate. Finding out his soulmate is Harry Potter shouldn’t change anything.Or: soulmarks, a masquerade ball, and gratuitous use ofThe Daily Prophetas a plot device.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story I started writing months ago when I first decided to get back into fanfic. The fact that it’s finally done is due in no small part to Sherry (Yesimawriter) -- thank you for your encouragement and for letting me bounce ideas off of you at all hours :) Many thanks also to Blowfish_Diaries as well for the quick and thorough beta!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this in all its shameless, self-indulgent glory. Link to the playlist can be found [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/9qvxp66p3wogiy1ho0nyrabec/playlist/5OoFoMzPwNUhdztEbM6JDH)

The thing is, Draco has always known he wasn’t going to end up with his soulmate.

While most of wizarding society still holds with the idea of soulmates -- part of the reason soulmarks don’t appear until you turn twenty, it’s said, is so that whatever ancient magic controls them can take into account your life experience and current relationships -- purebloods broke with that tradition in the 17th century. When the inheritance and blood status of your future children is on the line, letting an abstract design on the inside of your wrist determine who you’ll marry just isn’t an option. Especially when said mark might mean the person you’re most suited to be with is a half-blood, or a pureblood with no rank, or -- worst of all -- a Muggle.

Draco knew from a young age that he would not be allowed to pick his own bride; that the mark which would ink itself onto his skin the day he turned twenty would have little bearing on his future. And he knew from his parents that a non-match marriage could be happy -- loving, even -- provided one of the couple didn’t lose his family their respect, money, and power by choosing the wrong side in a war.

The fact that he’s always known doesn’t make it any easier.

~~~

Draco remembers being eight and drowsing on his parents’ bed, allowed to stay up a little later than usual to watch his mother dress for the party they were throwing that night, but not late enough to see the guests arrive. He watched as she came out of the walk-in closet barefoot with the close-fitting sleeves of her elegant dress robes still unbuttoned. She kissed his forehead as she crossed to her dressing table, a rare quiet moment when it was just the two of them, no house elves or Lucius in sight. He remembers watching through drooping eyelids as she combed her hair back and her sleeve fell open, revealing a pattern of stars and ribbons that he had never seen before, and being suddenly wide awake.

“Mama, what’s that?” he’d asked, and she’d been confused by his question until he rose and came over to her, pointing towards her wrist. She’d waved her wand and the sleeve buttoned itself, then opened her arms so he could climb onto her lap.

“It’s old magic,” she told him, and her brow furrowed when his eyes widened. “When you turn twenty, a symbol of some kind will appear on your wrist. Lore says that somewhere in the world, there’s a witch who will have the matching symbol to yours. Your perfect match, if you believe such things.”

“Does Father’s symbol match yours?” Draco had asked eagerly, and his mother had shook her head.

“No, darling. One must respect all magic, of course, but you really can’t base your whole future on a design on your skin, can you?” She’d lifted him gently off her lap, casting a spell to remove the wrinkles before she resumed pinning up her hair.

“I…I guess not,” Draco had said, watching her.

“Exactly, dear. Besides, by the time you turn twenty, you may already be engaged, or even married! Imagine if you had to wait to be a certain age for the rest of your life to start.”

Draco had nodded, although secretly he thought that this seemed like extra special magic, and perhaps his parents should listen.

“Draco, can you fetch Dobby? I want to make sure the hors d’oeuvres are going to be ready. And then you need to go to bed,” she said, picking up a brush and swiping it over her cheeks. “Give me a kiss and then I’ll come and tuck you in,” she said, and Draco pecked her cheek obligingly when she bent over.

He’d left the room, obediently going to find Dobby in the kitchen, but he couldn’t help eying his blank forearm as he walked. Of course he knew that his marriage would be arranged by his parents, and of course he believed his mother when she said it was antiquated magic, but if it were true…

Well. That would be nice.

~~~

Draco learns many things at Hogwarts, from his teachers as well as from his peers, including some things his parents might prefer he not know.

He learns, for example, that a lot of witches and wizards -- most of them who aren’t pureblood, and even some that are -- do follow their soulmarks when it comes to deciding who they’ll spend their lives with. Frequently the mark will simply solidify an ongoing relationship, or open a new door between two people who thought they were just friends, but sometimes it will lead to someone they’ve never met before. He learns that sometimes, rather than the magical design that is inked onto most wizards arms, one would get the name of a Muggle.

“That’s how me mum convinced me dad,” he overhears Finnigan explaining to Thomas in the library, and forgets about it entirely until he walks into the dining room of the Manor to find Bellatrix, arms bared, suspending a small white rabbit helplessly in midair. Her Dark Mark looks slick and wet, seems to be moving, and Draco feels his stomach roll before his eyes land on her other forearm. It is a bisected by a thin scar, pink and tough, that Draco has never noticed before.

Bellatrix sees him staring and flicks her wand, sending the rabbit towards the floor where Nagini is waiting. She runs a hand down the scar, eyes glinting with something like pride, and Draco shivers involuntarily. “That’s what you have to do,” she says, “when the magic is wrong.” She looks up at him, her eyes for once focused and intense. “Do you understand?”

Draco nods and flees.

~~~

Draco tries not to stay up the night before he turns twenty. He knows that the mark will come in, but there will be nothing for him to do with that information until he meets his soulmate. If he meets them at all. ( _When,_ a traitorous part of his brain whispers, and he firmly corrects himself. _If._ ) Unless, Merlin forbid, his soulmate is a Muggle, and he gets a name instead of a symbol -- not that he’d mind, really, but his parents would go ballistic, and he doesn’t fancy having to curse his own arm to hide the evidence.

His anticipation is worthless, he knows, because it will never come to anything. His mark will appear, and his parents will arrange a marriage for him anyway, and he’s fairly certain his wife won’t end up being his soulmate because he’s fairly certain his soulmate should be a man. And what are the odds, anyway, even if he were allowed to follow the mark, that he would find the one it will tie him too? Most matches will be between previous acquaintances, at least -- close friends or romantic partners are even more likely -- and Draco’s never had any of those.

His soulmark comes in, a lovely design of ivy wrapped around a set of antlers, silhouetted against a dark sky lit by a single star. It’s beautiful, and maybe he cries a bit, but he forces himself not to be hopeful. It’s enough to know that somewhere out there is someone who’s meant for him, even if he never meets them. He’s been so horrid, has done so many dark things in his past, that he’d wondered if he would be granted a soulmate at all. It’s enough to know he has. To meet them would be more than he could hope for.

And then on the day after Harry Potter turns twenty, his picture is plastered across the front page of the _Prophet_ \-- not an unusual occurrence, all things considered. Except, in this photo he sits in Diagon Alley, having lunch with Weasley and Granger. His grey t-shirt is stretched taut across his shoulders, and as he laughs and runs a hand through his hair, his forearm flashes towards the camera. The reporters at the _Prophet_ have included a zoomed-in photo below the fold, and Draco stares at it in shock. The angle is wrong, but he recognizes it instantly.

Antlers. Ivy. A dark night sky.

He drops the paper to the floor and buries his head in his hands, trying desperately to regulate his breathing.

He never thought that finding out who his soulmate was would hurt him so much.


	2. Chapter One

The roar of the Floo as it deposits Pansy into his living room registers dimly in the back of Draco’s mind. The fact that it’s Sunday flickers vaguely through his mind. She’s come to pick him up for brunch. He is still wearing his pyjamas.

“Draco, are you ready?” Pansy calls. He can hear the _click, click_ of her heels on the hearth, which become muffled as she reaches the carpet. “Draco?”

She walks into the kitchen to find Draco hunched over, head in hands and elbows on knees, trying -- and mostly failing -- to take in deep breaths through his nose. “Draco!” she cries out, and rushes over to him, rounding the table and crouching down to try and meet his eyes. When she ducks down, she notices the _Prophet_ at his feet, still open to the picture of Potter at lunch. She picks it up and holds it closer to examine it, bringing the photo into Draco’s view again. It swims in and out of focus. Perhaps he didn’t see what he thought he saw.

He squeezes his eyes shut until white stars burst behind his eyelids, then opens them again, blinking furiously.

Antlers. Ivy. Star.

He feels sick.

“Draco--” Pansy starts, looking up at him. He knows what her question will be, and he instinctively wraps his arms around his stomach, hiding his forearms from her view. The defensive mechanism will as good as answer her question, but he thinks he can make it through this if she just doesn’t address it directly.

Pansy’s eyes flit from his pale face to his clenched fists, and she sighs. Draco can tell she’s weighing her options, but evidently she’s decided not to try and get it out of him today. Thank Merlin. She rises smoothly, folding the paper neatly under one arm as she crosses the kitchen to the stove.

“Do you want some tea?” she asks, turning to face him, and he nods, even though he has no intention of drinking it. She leaves the _Prophet_ on the counter when she returns with mugs for both of them, and later takes it with her when she leaves, having watched with nervous eyes while Draco consumed two cups of tea and half a bowl of yoghurt. Draco assumes she is trying to be inconspicuous, but it is blatantly obvious that she wants the offending article out of his reach as soon as possible -- as though stashing the _Prophet_ out of his reach will negate the fact that Harry Potter shares Draco’s soul mark, and that now Draco knows.

He appreciates the effort, but he still buys another copy of the paper when he goes out for groceries that afternoon.

~~~

That Friday, as every Friday, Draco Floos from his flat to the Manor drawing room. As always, his mother is waiting for him by the hearth, and she smooths his robes over his shoulders before leading him into the dining room, where his father already sits, cane propped against the edge of the table as though it is still just a fashion accessory. They are served an extravagant meal, more courses than Draco knows what to do with anymore; the kind of meal that forces you to take small bites so you’ll still have room by dessert.

As his parents bicker familiarly over the proper way to serve veal tenderloin, Draco is reminded once again that the world spins on: all week he’s been living on a knife edge, waiting for someone -- _anyone_ \-- to grab his arm and ask him if anything seems off kilter to him. He feels like he’s walking crookedly through a right-side-up world, and almost chokes on his spoonful of gazpacho when Lucius levels a clear-eyed gaze at him and asks if he read the _Prophet_ this week.

Draco struggles to pull air into his lungs and speak. “I read the _Prophet_ every day,” he says, which is mostly true, in that he _gets_ the _Prophet_ every day, and he reads at least the headlines. “It’s important to stay up to date.”

This was one of his father’s mantras, taught to him from the cradle along with “Slytherins keep their secrets” and “purity will always conquer.” For obvious reasons, he doesn’t follow any of them anymore.

Lucius nods, but makes no elaboration, so Draco soldiers on. “To which article are you referring?” he asks, heart thumping in his chest. He’s thinking of grey jersey and green eyes, black lines on brown skin.

Lucius makes a face that would be a frown if he were less worried about getting wrinkles. “Astoria Greengrass’s coming out was announced on Wednesday,” he says.

Wednesday -- Draco hadn’t even opened the paper on Wednesday. He’d left it face down on his kitchen table when he left for work, and binned it when he got home.

“Oh?” he says now, hoping to buy some time to determine how he is supposed to react.

“Your mother was thinking of inviting the Greengrasses and Astoria to dinner next week,” his father says.

Narcissa is watching him with too-sharp eyes. “Are you amenable, Draco?”

Is he amenable? Amenable to dinner with the Greengrasses, yes, as it can’t be any worse than the usual Friday evening fiasco he sits through.

But he knows the real question lies below the surface, as it always does in his family. Is he amenable to an introduction to Astoria, to continuing to see her? Is he amenable to marrying Astoria Greengrass, if his parents determine her to be a suitable bride?

He runs a thumb over his soulmark, subconsciously tracing its design. The thought of an arranged marriage to Astoria Greengrass, nice as he’s sure she is, makes him feel like his organs are separating themselves from the rest of his body. It’s a familiar feeling, unlike the ache in his bones, which since the Sunday morning _Prophet_ has been tugging Draco to find Potter, find _Harry,_ and beg him to give Draco a chance.

Harry Potter would never give Draco Malfoy a chance.

He lifts his wine glass and takes a measured sip, letting the crisp, tart drink sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I’m amenable.”

~~~

The thing is, there’s nothing to be done about it.

Harry Potter is Draco’s soulmate. As much as he wants to deny it, it remains true. The picture from the _Prophet_ \-- which he carefully cut out and keeps, folded, at the bottom of his bedside table drawer -- continues to show Draco’s soulmark adorning Potter’s arm. And the statement from Potter, released in the _Quibbler_ the following week -- Draco bought a copy just to read it -- confirms that yes, that is his soulmark; no, he doesn’t know who his soulmate is; and no, he does _not_ appreciate reporters photographing him while he is trying to enjoy a simple meal with his best mates, thank you very much.

Speculation runs rampant, of course, about who Potter’s match must be. Draco hears through the grapevine (by which he means he gets Blaise to relay to him all the latest Auror gossip) that witches and even some wizards have been knocking down Potter’s door if they have so much as a plant or a cloud on their arms. Eventually, it dies off, although occasionally some fool will try to convince the _Prophet_ to let them do a tell-all about their sordid romance with the Chosen One. Common opinion is that his match hasn’t turned twenty yet, and that it will be Ginny Weasley. The two still appear in the papers together occasionally, walking through Diagon or Harry cheering at a Harpies game.

The thing is, Draco is a fool.

He’s known, he’s known since he was bloody _seven years old_ that he would have an arranged marriage; however fascinating he finds soulmates and matching marks, he’s had a good thirteen years to come to terms with the fact that all that wouldn’t matter for him. He _had_ come to terms with it -- he knew that his parents needed him to make an advantageous match in order to protect their future, and he was prepared to do so.

Until Harry Potter’s bloody mark showed up on the front page of the _Prophet._


	3. Chapter Two

The thing is, it was a lot easier to make his peace with the fact that he would never be with his soulmate before he knew his soulmate was _Harry Potter._

When it was just a nebulous idea of a person, a thing that would happen, someday, _maybe,_ he didn’t really feel the loss of it. He supposed it would be awkward, if he ever actually met his soulmate and they expected something more from him, but he also supposed it was unlikely that would even happen. He believed -- had to believe, or he might as well have fucking given up -- that a relationship could still be happy, loving, even without ancient magic tying you together.

He had to believe it, since there was no way in any scenario that his soulmate would be his wife.

But now...it’s not nebulous. It’s not some strange idea of a person who may or may not exist, who may or may not like him, who may or may not even believe in soulmates. It’s Harry Potter, and Draco can admit (now, finally) that he’s maybe sort of always had a bit of a crush on the Chosen One. And his stupid heart has maybe, sort of, run away with the idea that they are soulmates. _Destined._ He dreams of green eyes and a kind smile, of soft warm words whispered into his skin, of being covered and consumed by Harry Potter.

The thing is, that will never happen.

~~~

The masquerade is an old tradition that has been rebranded in the years since the War as a fundraiser for the Hogwarts Edification And Refurbishing Treasury -- HEART -- the combination scholarship/maintenance fund that is one of Granger’s pet projects. Draco remembers watching his parents dress to go when he was a child, although back then he thinks the cost of their seats went only towards the Ministry’s own coffers. Their costumes had always complemented each other, making it clear they were there as a pair, and his father had always left his hair uncovered, ensuring his identity would be known despite the supposed anonymity of the event.

Draco has never been invited before, and had little desire to go, but Pansy saw the invitation on his coffee table and let out an ungodly squeal.

“You were invited to the Masquerade?” she said, pronouncing the capital. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

They were sat on his couch, Draco’s feet in Pansy’s lap, and he selected a piece of cheese from the plate on his knees before answering her.

“I’m not planning on going,” he’d said, and she had glared.

“Draco. Don’t play dumb, I know you’re dying to go. You bitch about how you weren’t invited every year.”

“That’s because of the principal of the thing, Pans, not because I have any actual desire to put on an ugly costume and parade about in a mask.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a younger set now, the costumes aren’t those terrible monstrosities our parents used to wear.” He opened his mouth to protest, and she cut him off. “You’re going,” she said, “and you’re letting me dress you. Merlin only knows what you might come up with if left to your own devices.”

Which is how he finds himself there, hovering at the edge of the room, dressed like a pirate. Pansy kept it a secret from him until it was too late for him to protest, and he curses himself and her equally -- her for picking such a ridiculous outfit, and himself for letting her choose his costume. He’s wearing tight trousers made of what Pansy told him was “faux leather,” and a voluminous white shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows -- his forearms are numb from the combination of Disillusionment cream, wizarding make-up, and Glamours that are keeping his marks hidden. His mask is black satin trimmed with red, and a broad black cap which Pansy assured him was “authentic” covers his hair. A red sash knotted at his waist holds a plastic sword which Pansy procured at a Muggle costume shop. 

“It doesn’t need to be authentic, dear,” she’d told him, “and this way you needn’t worry about poking someone while you’re dancing.”

He doubts he will be dancing anytime soon, but is relieved to see that he at least fits in, no matter how uncomfortable he is. Pansy was right -- although some of the older set are still wearing the highly decorative dress robes he remembers his parents wearing, representing figures from mythology or history, the younger set has taken a more varied and literal approach to the costumes. Pansy herself is dressed as a 1920s flapper, wearing a beaded black dress and a feathered mask that matches her hair band. He sees several more cheeky interpretations of historical figures, a few characters he recognizes from Muggle fairy tales, and one couple who seem to be dressed as condiment bottles. Draco turns to accept a fresh drink from a waiter -- he’s going to need more Firewhisky to make it through this night, he can already tell -- and when he leans back against the wall there is someone next to him.

“Hope you don’t mind if I lurk with you,” the stranger says. He is wearing a crisp tuxedo and a top hat, and carries a funny black wand that’s capped with white at either end. His mask is white too, and complements the rest of his ensemble in a way that goes straight to Draco’s gut. His eyes, shadowed slightly by the crisp fabric, are bright.

“Not at all,” Draco says, taking a sip of his drink.

“I like your costume,” his companion says, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“I let my idiot best friend dress me,” he explains. “I’m still trying to decide if it was a mistake or not.”

“Not a mistake,” the stranger tells him. “It looks good.”

Draco can feel himself flushing, and hopes his mask hides it. “And what are you supposed to be?” he asks. On closer examination, his companion’s costume includes a few playing cards poking out of his breast pocket and a colorful handkerchief trailing out of one sleeve.

He waves the black wand lazily, making an arc of rainbow sparks. “A Muggle magician.”

Draco grins. “Clever.”

“Also an idea from a friend, I’m afraid, although I was allowed to pick my own clothing,” the stranger says. His eyes sweep over Draco, and a smirk forms at the edges of his mouth. “Not that I’m complaining about what your friend decided to put you in.”

Draco takes a sip of his drink, unsure how to respond. Is this stranger flirting with him? He’s usually not flirted with -- then again, he’s usually not wearing a mask.

He decides to enjoy it. “Flatterer,” he teases, and gets a smile in response.

“Perhaps.”

They stand in companionable silence for a few minutes, both sipping their drinks, until the stranger nudges Draco’s shoulder with his own and points with his head towards a couple on the other side of the room. “What do you think they’re supposed to be?”

Draco regards the pair in question. The man is dressed all in red, in a clinging one-piece suit with a long tailcoat over top. The woman is similarly attired in blue, except instead of a coat she has a raggedy skirt that reaches her knees.

“I have honestly no idea,” Draco says. They watch as the couple proceed to the dance floor and begin to dance, badly.

“I feel like I’m having Yule Ball flashbacks,” the man groans.

Draco tilts his head. “You went to Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes.”

The stranger takes a drink, and then tips his head back along the wall. “I loved it.”

Draco hums in response, and the other man throws an inquisitive glance his way.

“I liked it,” he says, “parts of it. And I imagine the parts I didn’t like were mostly my own fault.”

The magician nods. “I get that. I was pants at Potions, but if I’d bothered to do the homework I might have done a lot better. I think I had a personal vendetta against Professor Snape.”

Draco snorts a laugh. “A personal vendetta?”

“He always picked on me in class! I wasn’t feeling charitable about all those essays on the uses of moonstone or whatever.”

“Fair enough.” Draco looks down at his glass, and finds it empty.

“Can I get you another drink?”

“It’s an open bar,” Draco says dryly.

The man grins. “I know. But I didn’t want to walk away and have this be the end of our conversation.”

His smile is relaxed and happy in a way that is unfamiliar to Draco, because strangers never smile at him anymore, and everyone he is close to is too much of a Slytherin to let emotions play so openly across their face. Draco wants to live in this moment, flirting with a handsome stranger and not worrying about his history or his destiny, for as long as he can. “There are other ways to fix that,” he says, pushing off the wall and holding out a hand. “Would you like to dance?”

The magician’s hand is strong and dry in his own. “I’d love to.”

~~~

They dance, and drink, and feed each other hors d’oeuvres, and throughout it all, they talk. They talk about Hogwarts and Quidditch and music and politics and the newest radio drama -- they disagree over who is more suspicious, the governess or the step-brother -- and the recent discovery that Crying Clementines can be substituted for Mandrake leaves to make cough potions safer for children. The magician is funny and thoughtful, and Draco can’t remember the last time he had such a captivating conversation partner.

Dialogue with his mother is always stilted these days, as they both perform mental acrobatics to avoid any distasteful subjects. He exchanges pleasantries with his coworkers, but they never discuss anything more complex than who’s turn it is to replenish the office tea station. He enjoys talking to Pansy and Blaise, but they’ve been friends for so long and know each other so well that there is little new he can learn about them. When they disagree, it is mostly over gossip, so it has been years since Draco defended his opinions on anything more serious than the validity of the claims that Puddlemere United’s Seeker was sleeping with the team’s coach.

They eventually make their way back to the side of the room, laughing quietly at a conversation that has devolved into a critique of different Quidditch team’s uniforms. The stranger -- although he hardly feels like a stranger anymore -- is standing a little too close to him, looking up at Draco, his green eyes bright. Draco has a sense that he is about to be invited to spend the night, and although he’s never done that sort of thing -- never actually had the opportunity, if he’s being honest -- he thinks he just might say yes. Might as well take advantage of the mask covering the top half of his face, and all the spellwork he’s done one his arms to be able to wear his pirate shirt rolled up to his elbows.

He’s right -- his companion takes a step closer and reaches out a hand to trail it over Draco’s wrist, teasing. “Would you like to continue this conversation,” he begins, and then gasps, as his hand passes over Draco’s disguised soul mark. There is a shimmer across his skin as the disillusionment cream and glamour Draco had put on his arm fall away, revealing the small clear mark: antler, star, and twining ivy.

The man -- it’s Potter, he knows it now, it’s _Harry Potter_ \-- stares up at him, eyes wide with disbelief and marvel. His fingers dig into Draco’s forearms, and more sparks fly. “It’s you,” he breathes, staring at Draco like he’s a mirage. “I thought I’d never find you.”

And Draco knows this is a bad idea. He should turn around and leave and try to forget that Harry Potter ever looked at him like he was worth something. Because it was one thing to know, logically, intellectually, that the mark on his wrist matched the one on Potter’s own skin. And knowing that hurt, but he could push it down and remind himself that he was never going to be with his soulmate, that nothing was going to come of this.

But he’ll never be able to get over this now.

Potter has let go of his arm and has moved his hand to his sleeve, undoing his buttons with shaking fingers and pushing up the fabric and there, Draco can see, is the mark that is a twin of his own. He moves without thinking, brushing his fingertips over Potter’s smooth brown skin, and marvels at the goosebumps that rise in the wake of his touch.

“It’s you,” he whispers, even though he knew, even though -- in some ways -- this isn’t a surprise. He knew it was Potter -- has known since the _Prophet_ had published those photos, but he hasn’t really let himself think about it. He’d discounted it as a non-possibility, and moved on from there. But now -- with Harry here, in front of him, skin touching skin and beautiful eyes watching him with a care he can’t fathom -- everything feels different. “It’s you.”

And when Harry surges up to kiss him -- fingers tangling with his as he lets out a sigh -- Draco lets him. He tilts his head, tasting Potter’s mouth for the first time, and moans when Harry licks into his mouth, opening for him eagerly. He frees his hands so he can wrap them around Harry’s waist, while Harry’s hands bury themselves in his hair.

He finds them shifting, his back pressed against the wall, Harry not so much holding him there as leaning into him, lazy and relaxed even as his tongue pushes insistently into Draco’s mouth. One of his hands cups Draco’s cheek and he panics momentarily before remembering that his mask is still on. He can have this. Harry has no idea who he is -- just that they talked all night, they went to Hogwarts around the same time, and their soul marks match.

“Oh god, I want you,” Harry whispers, moving his hand down to run over Draco’s chest, pressing lightly as he pulls Draco into another kiss. “Let me take you back to mine.”

Draco doesn’t respond right away, distracting Harry by kissing along his jaw, and is rewarded with a shaky inhale and another lush kiss. His heart is racing, but he knows he shouldn't. It would be too easy to picture this night spinning itself out into a future, a life in which he wakes up next to Harry and goes to sleep next to Harry and doesn’t hide his soul mark and kisses him in the morning and at night. He’s been pretending for so long that he doesn’t want that, but he _does,_ which is exactly why he should push Harry away, make his excuses and leave now with his dignity intact, before his disguise disintegrates and he’ll be forced to face Harry’s anger and disappointment.

He decides he doesn’t care. He needs this -- he _needs_ this, so he can face the rest of his life of being the only person in the world who knows that Harry Potter is his soulmate.

He breaks the kiss, looking down into those bright green eyes, warm with affection and lust.

“Yes,” he says. “Take me back to yours.”

Harry smiles and grabs his hand, pulling him to the door.

~~~

The layout of Potter’s apartment registers vaguely from the corner of Draco’s eye as Harry pushes him down the hall towards his bedroom. He’s already gotten his suit jacket off, and is working on pulling Draco’s shirt out from his trousers when they slam into his bedroom door. Draco reaches down to the handle, getting it on the first try, and they fall into the room, Harry catching Draco around the waist and pulling him in for another kiss when he trips.

It’s an awkward position, and it doesn’t last long, Draco breaking away to sit on the edge of the bed and pull off his ridiculous boots. He drops them on the floor by the bed and finds Harry watching him hungrily.

“Lights on or off?” he asks, his voice low and rough, and Draco swallows.

“Off.” It’s probably too much to hope that the poor lighting will obscure his features enough to keep Harry from recognizing him, and Draco has no idea if he cast eyesight charms in order to wear the mask without his glasses. He casts a nonverbal glamour on his face, hoping it will be enough to keep Harry from instantly recognizing him, just in time for Harry to fall to his knees in front of him.

Draco’s heartbeat thuds in his ears. He watches Harry’s face, feeling frozen, as he reaches around Draco to pull his shirt the rest of the way out of his trousers. He rises slightly to pull it off of Draco’s head, Draco finally regaining the sense of mind to duck and help him. Harry drops it on the floor by Draco’s shoes and grabs Draco’s wrist, turning it over to press warm lips against their soulmark.

It feels amazing, and Draco groans, bringing his other hand to his groin to palm himself without conscious thought.

Harry notices and groans in response, his hands clenching in the meat of Draco’s thighs as he watches. He rubs his thumbs over the slick material. “Can I take these off?”

Draco nods and stands on shaky legs, trying to memorize how Harry looks kneeling at his feet as he peels off Draco’s pants and trousers, even pulling his socks down and off his feet. For a moment Harry stays there, and Draco wonders if he’s going to put his mouth on Draco’s cock; if he does Draco thinks he might come instantly, he’s so turned on. But instead Harry gets back to his feet and turns Draco around. He feels Harry’s hands coast over his shoulders and down either side of his spine, brushing across the top of his arse, before he brings them to the back of Draco’s head.

“Can I take this off?” he whispers, tugging gently at the tie of Draco’s mask.

“Yes,” Draco says, and then it’s gone, joining the pile at their feet, and Draco stands completely exposed to Harry Potter.

It’s too much, and he distracts himself by turning and capturing Harry’s lips, pulling him into a kiss that has Harry moaning and reaching for the buttons on his shirt. Draco rests a hand on Harry’s buckle, and waits for his nod before he begins to open it, trying to keep their mouths connected even though it’s making everything take twice as long. It’s been less than an hour since their first kiss, and Draco is already gone for the taste of Harry’s lips.

Harry’s clothes and mask join Draco’s on the floor, but they keep kissing, standing by the foot of the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. Harry’s hands are in his hair, on his shoulders, around his waist; finally, beneath his arse, lifting Draco off his feet as though he can’t bear for them to be any further apart. Draco feels weightless for a moment as he wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and they continue to kiss, before Harry climbs onto the bed and gently drops Draco onto the mattress. He scrambles backwards, and Harry follows him, his green eyes dark with desire.

“What do you--” Harry’s voice is breathless, and catches as Draco latches onto his earlobe and tugs, relishing the little moan it pulls out of Harry’s throat. “I don’t--”

“Inside me,” Draco begs, and can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed as he uses all his limbs to haul Harry on top of him. “I want you in me, please, _please--_ ”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and leans in to kiss Draco, messily. Draco groans and moves his hands up to Harry’s head, threading them through his hair to hold him in place as he unintentionally grinds up against him. Harry breaks off the kiss with a gasp, and Draco pouts and tries to pull him back. “But,” Harry breathes, and Draco stops tugging at his hair, “next time I want you to fuck me.”

_There won’t be a next time,_ Draco thinks but can’t say, because if he does there won’t be a this time either. Instead he nods twice, sharply, and tugs Harry back to him, plunging his tongue into his mouth and getting so caught up in the sensation that he doesn’t notice that Harry has cast the spell until slippery fingers touch his arse. He shivers, and Harry starts to pull back, but Draco shakes his head. “It’s just cold,” he whispers. “You can keep going.”

Harry nods, and Draco takes a deep breath as he feels those thick fingers breach him. It’s different, in a good way, from the little experimentation he has done with this himself, and he hides a wince as Harry pulls out and presses back in again. He doesn’t want Harry to realize he’s never done this before -- wants to keep this knowledge all to himself, a beautiful secret. No matter what happens in the future, Draco will know that his soulmate was the first person to touch him like this, and Merlin is it good.

Harry is panting in his ear, thrusting shallowly against his hip as he pushes two fingers into Draco’s body, and Draco is keening, running his hands up and down Potter’s powerful arms and shoulders as he bucks up to meet him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Harry breathes, and Draco can only moan in response. “I can’t believe I found you,” Harry says, and Draco tugs his face down into a kiss so Harry can’t see his face. He’s sure it hides nothing, and he doesn’t want to ruin this first time by thinking about how it’s also the last.

Harry kisses with intensity, like he wants to experience everything with Draco but can’t decide what he wants to do first. He teases Draco’s lower lip with his teeth before dipping his tongue into his mouth and pulling back slowly, morphing the kiss into something slow and so sweet that Draco can’t stand it. He breaks away and kisses the corner of Harry’s jaw. “Please, I’m ready,” he says, and Harry obligingly rearranges his position and thrusts inside.

Draco shudders as Harry pushes into him, letting out a startled gasp when Harry bottoms out. He moans when Harry begins to move, starting up a strong, steady pace, and his world slowly collapses as he loses himself in sensation. Harry’s hands on his hips, holding him in place; his own fingers on Harry’s shoulders, tacky with sweat; beautiful green eyes, undisguised by his usual glasses, locked with his own. Harry begins to speed up and it is too much - he’s too _far away,_ and Draco needs to touch him everywhere, so he wraps his arms around Harry’s back and tugs him closer. Harry imbalances a bit but catches himself, and Draco’s breath hitches at the way it makes him shift deep inside. He locks his ankles around Harry’s back and rocks up to meet him, starting a gentle push-pull of motion that grows stronger and stronger until Harry is gasping, shuddering “fuck, _fuck_ ” as he squeezes a hand between their bodies to wrap around Draco’s prick, until Draco is keening as his orgasm begins to overtake him, until Harry follows him with a guttural groan, peppering Draco’s face with kisses.

They stay like that for a moment, catching their breath, before Harry shifts above him and Draco lets his arms and legs fall away, wrinkling a nose when Harry pulls out and leaves him empty and sticky. He closes his eyes and feels a cleaning charm wash over him, and then the bed dips as Harry lies down next to him on his side, facing Draco.

Gentle fingers on the inside of his arm, over his soulmark, make him open one eye.

“I just can’t believe it,” Harry whispers again, and something in his hopeful expression is like ice water down Draco’s spine. He’s been thinking of how it will hurt him, knowing this can only happen once, but Harry...what will Harry think? When Draco disappears in the night and never Floos, never owls, will he keep looking? Will he think that it was an honest mistake, or will he take the hint? Will he worry that his soulmate was just a fan who wanted the experience of fucking the Saviour and none of what came with it?

And how long will it take for him to realize that Draco’s not coming back? How long until he dates again, in public; how long until Draco sees his face splashed across the front page of the _Prophet_ with someone else, how long until the interview where he tells the world that his soulmate abandoned him, how long, how long--

“Hey, whoa,” Harry says, leaning over Draco to place a hand on his shoulder, and Draco realizes his breath is coming harshly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “You okay?”

Draco blinks, wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Yes,” he says, and then, when Harry’s worried expression doesn’t fade, “Sorry. It’s just -- it’s a lot.”

Harry presses a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth. “I know the feeling. Let me get you some water.”

He rolls lithely out of bed, grabbing his glasses off the table as he goes. Draco watches him leave instinctively, then grabs Harry’s wand off the bedside table and uses it to spell the curtains shut, removing the moon and streetlight and plunging the room into further darkness. When Harry returns, Draco’s eyes have adjusted, and he sees Harry frown in confusion at the lack of light, but his expression betrays no sign of having recognized Draco.

“Sorry, I was getting a bit of a headache,” Draco lies, as Harry climbs in next to him and hands him the water. He takes a few sips as Harry removes his glasses again and shimmies down next to him.

“Mm. Hopefully sleep will help,” Harry says, and leans in to kiss him goodnight. He turns away and pulls the covers over himself, and Draco puts the glass down, marveling at how domestic this has become. Not that he’s a leading expert on adult sleepovers, but he’d rather gathered that it was more of a ‘collapse in sexually sated exhaustion, don’t let me see you in the morning’ kind of situation. Not the sort of time when one’s paramour would bring them cool water because they expressed a slight worry.

Harry flings a hand back and grabs Draco’s arm, interrupting his thoughts. Harry tucks Draco’s arm around him and snuggles back into his grasp, his messy locks tickling Draco’s nose. “Goodnight,” he sighs, and Draco squeezes him tight for a moment in response.

“Goodnight,” he says.

\---

Draco wakes up warm and slightly sticky.

He blinks his eyes open and it all comes hurtling back: the party, Harry touching his mark, Harry inviting Draco back to his apartment, the sex. He’d meant to lie there for just a few minutes, until he was sure Harry was asleep, before he left, but his emotional and physical exhaustion got the best of him.

Luckily, it’s still dark, and Potter is still breathing the deep breaths of sleep beside him. Draco extracts himself carefully, praying Harry doesn’t wake up, but he’s not that lucky. When he pulls himself up into a sitting position, the bed shifts, and Harry lets out a little huff as he rolls his head back to observe Draco.

“Where’r’you going?” he asks, voice thick with sleep.

“Just to use the toilet,” Draco says, and Harry doesn’t question him. He does, however, reach up a hand and wave Draco towards him. Draco obeys, hesitant, and his breath hitches when Harry lands a clumsy kiss halfway onto his cheek.

“Kay,” he murmurs, and rolls back over, burrowing into the sheets.

Draco does go use the toilet in the en suite, but he doesn’t climb back into bed with Harry. He wants to, desperately. He wants to climb back under those warm covers, and press a kiss into Harry’s hair, and let the sun wake him in the morning. He wants to watch Harry wake up, to sit across from him and eat breakfast and let himself be soft and relaxed, and then drag Harry back into bed to do it all over again. And he wants to keep doing that, or a variation thereof, every day for as long as Harry will let him.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Harry won’t let him. If Draco climbs back into Potter’s bed, if he stays there until the sun comes out, until his soulmate wakes up and puts on his glasses, he won’t be rewarded with a good morning kiss or a sleepy sated breakfast. He can picture how Harry’s face would twist, first confusion -- “Malfoy? What are you doing here?” -- before realization and the subsequent disgust set in. He imagines being tossed through the Floo naked, although he doubts Potter would be quite that cruel. He imagines Harry confessing the experience to Granger and Weasley, the horror that would cross their faces. He imagines Harry denying the truth of their marks, accusing Draco of tricking him. He wonders if Harry would rather have another scar on his forearm than a soul mark that was the twin to Draco’s.

Draco doesn’t get back in the covers, even though the soft pillows and the relaxed line of Harry’s shoulders are both so tempting. He dresses carefully, moving slowly to avoid noise and to draw out the remaining time he gets to spend here. He picks up his shoes and walks to the door, pausing to take one last look at Harry. He is asleep, curled up as though cold, and Draco thinks he sees a small frown on Harry’s face. He could climb back behind him, stay just a few more hours, still sneak out before the sun rose...

No. Never mind that. He closes the door carefully behind himself and carries his boots to the front door. Once there, he pulls them on and let the door fall shut behind him. Outside he Apparates directly into his flat.

When he gets home, he undresses again and slides into his own bed, but he finds he can’t fall asleep for a long time.


	4. Chapter Three

Draco doesn’t get out of bed for most of Sunday. He tells himself he’s letting himself wallow to get it out of his system, but he doesn’t believe it -- it’s not as if he could do anything else if he tried. With a valiant effort, he gets himself into work on Monday, and is relieved to hear through the grapevine that Potter is home sick with a 24-hour bug. It’s mostly unlikely that he would see Harry anyway -- he usually doesn’t -- but they work in the same building, so anything is a possibility. At five-thirty, he’s just finished re-ordering the sections of a particularly difficult Goblin treatise from the early 1500s, and he’s about to go home and reward himself for a job well done and for making it through the day without completely breaking down, when a memo from Pansy flies into his office. It smacks straight into his face, and Draco scowls because he _knows_ she does that intentionally, even though she denies it, as no other inter-departmental office memo has ever come anywhere near running into his head.

_Dinner at Marcel’s -- don’t forget!_ She’s written, as though he was likely to forget their standing Monday date -- he hasn’t forgotten, but he _was_ hoping she’d let him say he’d forgotten this week, so he didn’t have to go.

He imagines that if he doesn’t turn up at Marcel’s, Pansy will turn up at his flat, which at this moment in time sounds even worse.

He Apparates to the restaurant.

“Merlin, Draco,” Pansy says when he is lead to their table, pushing his chair out with her toe. He slumps into it gratefully. “You look like death. Don’t tell me you’re still hungover.”

“I’m not hungover,” he mutters, grabbing the menu and pretending to read it, even though they’ve been coming here for months and he always gets one of two dishes. “I wasn’t that drunk. I, unlike some people, have too much class to get sloshed at a Ministry benefit.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Oh, get off your high horse, Draco. I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t see you snogging that fit bloke at the edge of the dance floor -- which, I might remind you, demonstrates another sort of lack of class.” Draco feels his cheeks warm, and Pansy chortles. “Not that it matters, as no one knew it was you, and that is rather the point of a masquerade.”

At this point the waiter comes over, and Pansy orders a G&T and the salmon. Draco orders red wine and ravioli. As soon as the waiter is gone, Pansy leans forward, grinning.

“Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco says, reaching for his glass of water, and Pansy literally bats his hand away.

“Spare me the innocent act, Draco. You were necking with fit magician bloke in public, and then you were both gone. I want the details.”

“Nothing--”

“Don’t you dare tell me that nothing happened, Draco Malfoy. Lie if you must, but if you didn’t take advantage of this opportunity I might have to disown you.”

Draco rolls his eyes. Salazar, but he’s wishing he’d gone home after work and let future Draco deal with it when Pansy got upset with him.

“Any chance you’ll respect my wishes when I tell you I don’t want to discuss it with you?”

The waiter arrives with their drinks. Draco takes his, thanking him with a nod. Pansy grabs hers, smiling politely at the waiter, and then turns back to Draco. Her grin shows teeth. “Not a chance, darling.”

Draco lets out a breath through his nose. He can make it through this conversation with Pansy. He’s already made it through the worst, hasn’t he? He’s already turned around and left Harry Potter, left his _soulmate,_ after finally finding him, when he knows there’s no chance he will ever be found again.

When he knows he won’t let himself be found again.

He decides to go for blasé.

“Fine. We went back to his place. We fucked. Then I went home, and slept in, not because I was drunk but because I was very tired. Satisfied?”

Pansy’s eyes glitter. “I don’t know. Were you?”

Draco presses his lips together, as though keeping his mouth shut will help him keep his emotions in check. “Yes. Very.”

Pansy laughs, delighted. Draco takes a sip of his water, focusing on the cool slide of it into his chest, and on not remembering any specific details about that night.

It is suspiciously quiet at their table. He looks up to see Pansy eyeing him thoughtfully.

“What?” he asks. She shakes her head. “You’re looking at me like I’m a problem,” he tells her, and it makes her smile.

“I’m just wondering why you don’t look more pleased, since you had, by your own admission, ‘very satisfying’ sex with an extremely fit bloke not--” she pretends to look at her watch “forty-eight hours ago.” She quirks an eyebrow at him, her expression straddling the line between teasing and inquisitive.

“Pansy…”

“Do you know who it was?” she asks, shrewdly, and Draco gets the uncomfortable feeling that she’s figured out more than he wants her to, even though he’s given her practically nothing to go on.

Draco takes a sip of wine and debates the merit of lying to her, but he imagines that if he says no, Pansy will take it upon herself to find Draco’s mystery shag for the sake of his sex life. “Yes,” he tells her.

Her eyebrows raise. “Are you going to see him again?”

He doesn’t pause. “No.”

“Why?”

“I’m just not.”

“Draco.”

“It’s none of your business, Pansy.”

“If you know who he is, why don’t you owl him?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Then why are you so grumpy?”

Draco grits his teeth. “Unrelated.”

“Bullshit, Draco--”

“It’s nothing to do with you, Pansy--”

“I just don’t understand why you continue to sabotage yourself when you could easily owl him--”

“Because he doesn’t know who _I_ am, Pansy!” Draco snaps. “Because I snuck out before he woke up so he wouldn’t know his soulmate was a fucking Death Eater!”

Someone clears their throat. Draco tears his eyes away from Pansy and sees the waiter standing there, holding their food. He looks extremely uncomfortable, and Draco can feel himself flushing, again. Luckily this is a Muggle establishment, so no one knows the significance of what he just shouted -- thank Merlin. On the other hand, the fact that the words “soulmate” and “Death Eater” mean nothing to Muggles probably means he sounded slightly crazy, meaning he should be more embarrassed.

“The ravioli?” the waiter asks, and Draco nods, moving his napkin out of the way so there is room for the plate to be set down. The waiter deposits Pansy’s dish in front of her and retreats quickly.

Draco busies himself with putting his napkin on his lap, picking up his fork, hoping they can ignore the fact that he just had a public outburst like a child, but Pansy’s quiet voice interrupts him.

“Draco,” she says gently. “It was your soulmate?”

The thing is, despite having known for over a decade that finding his own soulmate and actually sharing a life with them would be an impossibility, Draco has always had a soft spot for everything about soulmates -- the stories, the myths, the whole idea that there was one person in the world for whom he was perfectly suited.

The thing is, Pansy knows this, having had to live through much of Draco’s obsession, so he can’t pretend that this isn’t a big deal.

He closes his eyes, pulling his emotions in tight inside him so his face stays carefully blank. “Yes,” he says simply.

Her eyes are calculating in that terrible way she’s developed since the end of the war, where he can tell the mental arithmetic she’s doing isn’t about what personal information he’s revealed or how she can get him to do what she wants, but rather a tabulation of how much pain he’s in, and whether or not her brand of tough love will be any help.

She’s usually wrong about that.

“Draco,” she begins, in the gentle way he mostly hates. He twirls his fork in his hands, enjoying the play of cool metal against his fingertips. “Your soulmate. Is it…”

Draco lets his eyes fall shut. “Please,” he says. “Don’t.”

Pansy reaches across the table and squeezes his hand once, firmly, before finally letting the subject drop.

~~~

The thing is, Draco has always paid a bit more attention than he should to Harry Potter. Finding out Potter shared his soulmark didn’t change that, and now, even though he knows it will be easier to deal with everything about this situation if he cuts himself off, he simply can’t.

He watches from across the Ministry atrium as Weasley tells Potter a story, gesticulating wildly, clearly overdoing it to amuse Potter. Potter cracks a smile, and Weasley waves his hands above his head, and something that he says makes Harry’s face fall. Draco is a bit surprised to see that Weasley notices; he puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, says something else, and Harry nods. His eyes look tired behind his glasses. Draco wonders if Weasley and Granger know what happened -- if Potter told them -- or if they’ve simply observed his melancholy.

Six weeks later Harry’s face is splashed across the front page of the _Prophet_ again, but this time it’s not a pap shot, jerky and unfocused. Harry sits in what Draco recognizes as his living room, despite having seen it only briefly and in the dark. He is dressed casually, in a jumper and jeans, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees before settling back and smiling. When his owl drops the paper on his breakfast plate, Draco watches that movement on loop so many times he loses count, enthralled by Harry’s smile, the ease of movement and comfort that his surroundings bring him. When he finally unfolds the paper to read the headline, he loses his breath for a moment. _CHOSEN ONE CHOOSES SELF,_ the headline blares, and below that, _Potter opens up about his decision to live without a soulmate._

There are tears in his eyes before he understands why, and his vision blurs as he tries to read the article. He wipes them away, pushing his plate to the edge of the table so he can spread the _Prophet_ out in front of him.

> Harry Potter has been in the spotlight since his first year at Hogwarts, but ten years out from his first foray into the Wizarding World, Potter has gained a new gravitas. I joined him at his modest London flat for a cup of tea -- taken with two sugars -- and a frank discussion of one of the most speculated-on issues of the day: Harry Potter’s soulmate.
> 
> ‘It was a huge surprise,’ Potter said of the mark, and the sudden interest it generated in Wizarding Britain. ‘Growing up in a Muggle household, obviously I’d never heard of soulmates, and I think it’s one of those things that’s just so -- taken for granted, by people who grew up with it, that no one ever really thought to explain it to me.’
> 
> Of course, things were made more difficult when a photo of the soulmark appeared in this paper, opening a floodgate of young witches and wizards hoping their arms might bear the match.
> 
> ‘Luckily I have good security at my flat, and my friends and I usually got out in Muggle London anyway, but being accosted on the job was not so pleasant.’
> 
> Potter works as an Auror, a job he describes as ‘challenging, but rewarding.’ Soon, though, he steers the conversation back to the topic of soulmarks.
> 
> ‘I understand that it’s an interesting topic for people, and I’ve definitely gotten caught up in the drama of it to. But I wanted to do this interview to ask -- once and for all -- for people to stop approaching me about being my soulmate.’
> 
> What made Potter speak out now, when it’s been over a year since the photo was first released?
> 
> ‘I’m exhausted of talking about it, and it’s no longer relevant.’
> 
> Did this mean Potter had found his soulmate, I inquired, eager -- as I’m sure _Prophet_ readers are -- to find out who the mystery person might be.
> 
> Potter paused for a moment, looking pensive, before he spoke. ‘Yes, and no,’ he finally said.
> 
> When asked to elaborate, he sighed. ‘I know who my soulmate is. I’ve known for a while, actually. And I’m not going to say who, because we aren’t together and that isn’t my information to share.’
> 
> ‘Plenty of witches and wizards choose not to have a relationship with their soulmate, romantic or otherwise. This decision isn’t anyone’s business but my own, but I realize that I’m a public figure and people want to know what’s happening in my life. That’s why I’m choosing to share, but this is the last I will be discussing this topic with the public.’
> 
> I ventured to ask if the Boy Who Lived had any other romantic news to share, if he had decided to live sans his soulmate.
> 
> ‘Not at this point, no,’ he said. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ We shared a laugh. ‘I’m quite happy with my life the way it is right now -- I have a great job and great friends and I don’t feel I’m missing out by not having a soulmate in my life.’
> 
> You heard it here first, folks -- Harry Potter is blazing a new trail. We wish him, as always, the best of luck.”

  
Draco feels like he’s dropped through the floor, but when he looks up from the paper he sees that he is still in his kitchen. His blue curtains still hang in the window, their shadow falling across the cabinets. The edge of his wooden chair digs into the back of his thighs. He stands and refolds the _Prophet_ and carries it into his bedroom.

He carefully empties his bedside table drawer onto his bed, picking up the paper at the bottom. It’s the picture of Harry’s soulmark, printed over a year ago now, and it’s faded slightly in the intervening months. Draco picks it up in shaking fingers, and lets himself look at it for a long moment, reminding himself that this, at least, is true; he has the proof here in his hands, even if Harry denies it for the rest of their lives. 

He puts his things back in the drawer, returns to the kitchen table, and incinerates the copy of that day’s _Prophet._

~~~

Pansy drags him out of his flat on Saturday, insisting that he’s moping and it’s her job as best friend to snap him out of it. She takes him shopping on Diagon, which is the last place he wants to be, but when Pansy sets her mind on something he’s long since learned not to argue. She buys him a fancy Muggle coffee drink before they enter the Leaky, and he is still sipping on it, staring at the window while Pansy skims the rack of cloaks, when Harry walks by outside. He is flanked by Weasley and Granger, wearing a jacket and jeans and looking tired but happy, and Draco’s whole body tightens just to see him.

In an attempt to hide his reaction, Draco looks down, takes too large a sip of his coffee, and manages to spill it down his front. He jumps and curses, pulling his now-soaked scarf away from his chest, as Pansy materializes beside him. She waves her wand and the coffee disappears, then peers out the window and sees the three Gryffindors walking. 

Draco is expecting her to make a comment, but she just looks at him sadly, grabs his coffee cup out of his hands, and takes a long sip.

“Hey,” he says, “I wasn’t done drinking that!”

“My paying for it was on the condition of you not moping,” she tells him. “You were moping. Ergo, it is now mine.”

Draco makes a show of pouting, and Pansy rolls her eyes. She returns his now significantly more empty cup to him and grabs him by the crook of his elbow, hauling him through the shop doors and out into the street.

“Where to next?” he asks.

Pansy laughs. “It’s a surprise!” she sing-songs, reaching up to tug his knit cap down over his eyes.

“Pansy,” he groans, and feels her grip his arm tighter.

“I’ve got you, Draco. Do you trust me?”

It’s a game they used to play as children, leading each other around their mother’s parlors, and Draco knows how he is supposed to respond.

“Pansy, we’re adults. This is unseemly.”

Her peppermint-cool breath tickles his ear. “Do you _trust me?_ ”

He sighs. “Never trust a Slytherin, Pansy.”

She whoops and spins him around by the arm, completely fucking over his sense of which way they are facing, and he can’t help but join her laughter. He knows she is trying to distract him -- since the war, they have ceased any attempts to be truly sneaky with each other, and though her methods are clumsy they are also working. He isn’t paying as much attention as he should be to his feet, though, and when Pansy suddenly halts next to him he doesn’t respond fast enough.

He runs into someone and drops his coffee cup, almost wiping out on the snow-covered street, but a pair of hands on his arm hauls him back up. Beside him, Pansy whispers “shit.”

He whips his hat off, blinking fast as his eyes re-adjust to the light. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are staring at him -- he must have run into one of them -- and Harry is letting go of his arm and stepping back. Draco feels his face flood with heat and glances up, away from Harry’s intent gaze, and sees that they are in front of Flourish and Blotts. Harry and his friends must have just been leaving the bookstore.

Pansy is stammering out an apology next to him. When she pulls out her wand, Granger flinches. Pansy colors a deep red.

“Sorry, I was just -- your trousers--” she points with her wand, and Draco notices that his dropped coffee had splashed onto Weasley’s jeans, dark spots now decorating the light blue material.

“Thanks,” Weasley says, granting permission, and Pansy murmurs the cleaning spell.

“Sorry,” Draco says -- practically croaks -- once he finally finds his voice. He doesn’t want to face any of them, looks down at his hat in his hands instead. “We were just -- um --”

“My fault,” Pansy interrupts. “It’s a game we used to play when we were kids. We’ll just…be going.”

Her hand finds Draco’s and she tugs, pulling him backwards.

“Sorry again!” she calls as they retreat. He echoes her hoarsely.

~~~

The thing is, everything that has been true about Draco and Potter throughout their lives remains true. They’ve never gotten along. Their friends hate each other. They fought on opposite sides of a war. They’ve got nothing in common with each other, never have, regardless of what some ancient and mysterious magic has to say about it.

Harry is nothing if not principled, and Draco is nothing if not loyal. He has a duty to his family. One night of sex -- amazing, passionate, connected sex though it might have been -- is not enough foundation for a future. Nothing that has ever been between Harry and Draco could be called a foundation for a future. One night was all they would last.

At least, that’s what Draco tries to tell himself.

~~~

Draco has spoken to the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office exactly three times: in his final interview when he was first hired, during his six month evaluation, and when he was promoted from Trainee to Apprentice Translator. When he returns from lunch to see his latest assignment on on his desk, he picks up the parchment and marches to her office, and sits on the overstuffed velour sofa across from her door until she has a free minute to talk to him.

Of course, because he cannot actually tell the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office that Harry Potter is the soulmate he slept with and ran out on three months ago, she makes him keep the assignment. She also frowns at him in a disappointed way, her eyes flicking to his forearm -- the one with the Dark Mark -- with an expression that makes him regret his impulse decision to talk to her.

Which is how Draco finds himself in the DMLE offices on Friday morning, sitting in a repurposed interrogation room across from Harry and Dean Thomas and attempting to explain the particulars of Goblin property law. A case they are working on has unearthed a cadre of stolen Goblin artifacts, and has snowballed from a messy divorce into an inter-species lawsuit. But there are only a few notes that haven’t already been translated, and Draco has enough knowledge of Gobbledegook to translate those. He begins to work at that while Harry and Thomas go over their case notes, talking quietly amongst themselves. He’s just reflected that this isn’t at all as bad as he feared when Thomas is called away, leaving him alone in the room with Harry.

He manages to write out a few more lines before Harry breaks the silence.

“I didn’t know you worked in the Goblin Liaison Office.”

Draco spares a glance up and quickly brings his eyes back to his parchment. Harry’s gaze is clear and bright and, worst of all, focused on Draco. He can feel his traitorous cheeks going pink.

“Well, it’s true,” he mumbles. To his surprise, Harry laughs. It shocks him so much that he looks up, and his eyes lock with Harry’s, and all he can think is _your cock has been inside my arse._ He hopes Harry doesn’t know Legilimency.

His face flames and he looks away, cursing his pale skin and the fact that he looks like a teenager with a crush. All things considered, it isn’t that far from the truth, but that doesn’t mean Draco wants to broadcast it.

“How long have you worked in Goblin Liaison?” Harry asks.

Draco notices a mistake he made in an earlier sentence and crosses it out, dragging his quill heavily across the parchment and watching as the ink bleeds out and grows the line.

“Almost a year and a half,” he says, which would be enough of an answer, but he finds himself continuing to speak, though he keeps his quill poised over the parchment. “I’m in the translator apprenticeship program. It’s two years, and then if I pass the examinations, I’ll be promoted to Assistant Translator and be allowed to work independently.”

Harry lets out a low whistle. “I didn’t realize it took so long to learn to translate Gobbledegook,” he says.

Draco traces his initials in Goblin runes along the corner of the paper before blotting them out. “It’s not just the language,” he says. “It’s also Goblin customs, history, culture...law,” he continues, jabbing with his quill towards the notes in front of Harry. “And two years is just for written translation. You can’t be promoted to Lead Translator until you’re proficient in the spoken language.”

He chances a glance up at Harry’s face, sure he’s boring him, but he’s watching Draco with a thoughtful expression. “And you want to do that?”

Draco nods. “Yes.”

He expects that Harry’s next question will be why -- it’s what his friends and his parents have asked him in a hundred different ways. Why Gobbledegook? Why the Goblin Liaison Office? Why the Ministry at all? Why even work?

The truth is that Draco doesn’t know. The announcement of the application deadline in the _Prophet_ caught his attention, and he applied mostly on a whim. It’s a prestigious program, and even with an O on his Ancient Runes NEWT, Draco hadn’t expected to be accepted. But he was, and it gets him out of the house every day, and he felt better about moving out of the Manor knowing he wouldn’t be living off of his vault. Gobbledegook is also surprisingly fascinating, and challenging, and Draco has always been stubborn.

But Harry doesn’t ask why. He cocks his head to the side, regarding Draco seriously. “So how much spoken Gobbledegook do you know?” he asks.

“Well, my vocabulary is pretty good, but my pronunciation is shit.”

The expression on Harry’s face is wicked. “You can’t say that and not expect me to ask for a demonstration.”

Draco gives Harry a flat look. “I just told you I was bad at speaking it,” he says.

“Better than I’d ever do,” Harry says. “C’mon, Malfoy. Please? Just say something simple. Say ‘My name is Draco.’”

The way Harry’s voice wraps around his name makes Draco’s lungs feel too big for his chest. “Fine,” he says. “ _My name is Draco._ ” The Gobbledegook pronunciation of his name tangles his tongue and comes out terribly, but it’s not like Harry will know the difference. Draco probably could have made up nonsense words and Harry would have been happy.

Harry laughs. “That’s brilliant!”

The look on his face breaks Draco’s heart, because he wants to see it every day. The next words in Gobbledegook are ones he’s never practiced before, but they come out easily.

“ _You’re my soulmate. I miss you._ ”

Harry’s eyes are so, so green, and Draco couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

“ _I’m your soulmate, and I love you._ ”

Harry’s smile fades, his gaze boring into Draco’s own. He’s saved from doing something foolish, like repeating the words in English, when the door bangs open and Thomas drops a stack of folders onto the table in front of Draco.

“More ransom notes to translate,” he says. The scrape of his chair as he pulls it out and sits next to Harry is loud and grating.

Draco pulls the first folder towards him, resolutely ignoring the weight of Harry’s stare.

~~~

Of course the first time Draco has ever arrived late for a Friday dinner at the Manor is the Friday his parents have invited Astoria Greengrass and both of her parents to join them. When an elf shows Draco into the dining room, four pairs of pureblood eyes judge his tardiness; Astoria apparently does not find his arrival noteworthy, as she continues to idly stir her soup. She’s beautiful in the way that pureblood witches are supposed to be beautiful, but wears a polka dotted blouse rather than dress robes. When Draco sinks into the seat across from her, ignoring his mother’s disapproving sniff, Astoria raises her eyes and gifts him with a small smile. Her eyeshadow is purple.

The meal is exquisite. The conversation is excruciating. Draco has never been less in the mood for pleasantries and posturing. His head is full of Harry and the look in his eyes right before Thomas had interrupted them. He’s well aware that he’s being a terrible conversationalist, giving one word answers and ignoring all of the openings his parents are leaving for him to talk about himself. In his defense, Astoria is causing just as much trouble; when she pretends not to understand a thinly veiled question about her virginity, forcing Lucius to repeat himself twice, and louder each time, Draco has to hide a laugh in his napkin.

The evening ends with Mrs. Greengrass pulling Astoria through the Floo and leaving her husband to apologize for his daughter’s behavior. By the time Mr. Greengrass steps into the flames, Draco’s father is frowning, and his mother is watching him with nervous, calculating eyes.

“What did you think of Astoria?” Lucius asks. He sunk down to the couch as soon as their guests were gone, and Draco can only guess at the pain his leg and hip are in from feigning that he is unhurt.

“She’s delightful,” he says honestly, clearly shocking them both, “but I’m not going to marry her.”

He can tell his parents are gearing up to mount a defense of Astoria -- ironic, since her bad attitude is exactly why he found her so fascinating -- and holds up a hand to stop them. He hadn’t intended to do this tonight, if ever, but it suddenly seems imperative that they know.

“I don’t want you to arrange a marriage for me anymore.”

The Malfoy family is one of few words. They choose what they say carefully and practise restraint more often than not, but they always have an opinion to share, and choose to stay silent. In this moment, Lucius and Narcissa are silent because their minds are blank, and Draco cannot help but feel triumphant.

“Draco,” his mother finally says, “whatever do you mean?”

“I told you I was amenable to your organizing an arrangement with Astoria, but I have changed my mind. I don’t want an arrangement with Astoria Greengrass, or with any other witch you might find for me.”

His father speaks this time. “Draco,” he says, confusion and warning dancing in his voice, “what’s brought this on?”

“I like men,” Draco says simply. His parents seem a little shocked, not by the information, but by the fact that Draco is saying it to their faces. “I don’t want a loveless marriage to a woman who isn’t my soulmate.”

At this, his father’s eyebrows furrow. His mother frowns.

“Draco,” he says, “you must know that your...preference does not preclude you from taking a wife.”

“My darling,” she says, “do you truly have reason to think you’re going to find your soulmate?”

It’s what he’s been told his entire life. Soulmates were meant for fairytales and people who were less important, had less responsibilities. Marriage to the right witch and the production of an heir should be his top priorities.

Draco had been a child who loved romantic stories and daydreamed about running away with a prince. He’s never fit into the space in the world that his parents had carved out for him, so it’s time to carve his own. Even if he’s doing it alone.

“I only said that I didn’t want you to arrange my marriage,” he says finally. “I didn’t say I thought I was going to find my soulmate.”


	5. Chapter Four

The thing is, for all the time Draco spent daydreaming and hypothesizing about his soulmate as a child, he didn’t think that much about what it would mean to love them. He didn’t have a frame of reference for how this would feel. He loved his parents in a passive way, and he understood their love for each other as something similar, separate from the all-consuming passion of soulmate fairy tales. He never expected to meet his soulmate, really, and assumed he would have with his wife something like what his parents shared. This deep-seated _need_ for Harry to be alright, this constant worry, this happiness that tries to bubble up just upon hearing his name -- Draco isn’t prepared for it. He doesn’t want to feel like this. He doesn’t want it.

~~~

Draco almost doesn’t read it when he sees Harry’s name blazoned across the top of the _Prophet._

It’s a Saturday, and Draco thinks he’s done a rather good job of surviving this week, and he’s planned for it to be a lazy weekend morning. He’s only gotten out of bed to fix himself a cup of tea and a piece of toast, intending to climb right back under the covers once he’s done. His owl has dropped the _Prophet_ on the kitchen counter, and Draco is about to Banish it -- he simply won’t read anything about Harry today, when he is supposed to be taking care of himself and protecting his fragile, bruised heart -- when he realizes there is no picture.

There is _always_ a picture.

He picks it up and the paper falls open, the words splashed harsh and angry across the page. _POTTER IN CRITICAL CONDITION. Decorated Auror and Defeater of the Dark Lord taken to St. Mungo’s late last night after a surprise attack on the Ministry._

Draco pulls on trousers and the first pair of shoes he can find and Apparates to St. Mungo’s.

~~~

Shockingly, when Draco runs up to the Welcome Witch desk at St. Mungo’s and demands to know what room Harry Potter is in, they won’t tell him. He supposes this is reasonable, given that he has no formal connection to the Savior of the Wizarding World, is wearing a pajama shirt and yesterday’s work trousers, and still has toast crumbs down his front. He brushes them off as he walks away, and realizes that his forearms are exposed, both the Dark Mark and his soul mark bared for the world to see.

He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. He never goes out in short sleeves, and he’s cursing himself now, but is unwilling to go home and change. Perhaps if he just sits and waits, someone will come by, and he’ll be able to hear something, anything--

He surprises himself with the depth of his fear. His emotions surrounding Harry have mostly been a jumble of sadness and regret and guilt, but he’s realizing now -- when it may no longer be true -- that there was always a part of him that thought there was still time. Even when he read that article in the _Prophet,_ where Harry denied him, Draco still thought-- maybe someday. Maybe their paths would cross again. Wizards lived for a long time, and maybe if enough years passed, the other mark on his arm wouldn’t keep Harry from loving him.

Now, though, it hits him that he may be out of time. His fear is like a living thing in his stomach, churning and flipping, and regret clenches in his throat. He wishes he had done something differently -- maybe he should have owled, like Pansy suggested, maybe it could have gone differently -- but he knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t have done anything differently. He wouldn’t have been brave enough.

“Malfoy?”

A voice calling his name pulls him out of his thoughts. A pair of grey trainers stop in front of him, and he looks up to see Ron Weasley watching him quizzically.

“What are you doing here?”

Draco jumps to his feet, hating how vulnerable he is, in his thin pajama top while Weasley looks to still be in his work clothes. “I-- I just--” He’s not sure how to explain himself. He wants to lie, sure his actual reasoning will sound ridiculous, but at the same time, Weasley is probably his best chance of finding out what’s happened to Harry.

“I saw, in the paper,” he says. “It said Ha-- Potter was hurt last night, and I just wanted to see-- I just wanted to make sure he was alright, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. It’s stupid.”

Weasley is looking at him with an unreadable expression.

Draco now apparently babbles when he’s nervous. “It was silly to come. I mean, Mungo’s has the best Healers, I’m sure everything’s fine-- I’ll just be going--”

“I can bring you up to see him, if you want.”

Draco feels a wave of hope so heady it makes him dizzy. “So he’s okay?”

Weasley nods, and Draco doesn’t question why or how they are having a civil conversation in the St. Mungo’s lobby. “It was...not pretty. They had to knock him out as soon as they brought him in so the Healers could work on him, and he’s still unconscious, but he’s going to be okay.”

For the first time since opening the paper this morning, Draco can breathe deeply. “Oh,” he says. “That’s good.”

“If you come with me, they’ll let you in to see him.”

Draco should really say no. He’s gotten what he wanted -- he knows Harry is alright -- and now he should go home and resume his lazy weekend plans. But he’s still too keyed up, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, and if Harry is still unconscious, what harm can it really do?

“Okay,” he says quietly, and Weasley’s eyebrows quirk with something -- surprise? -- before he steps back and gestures with his head for Draco to follow him. He’s holding a paper cup of tea in each hand, he notices now, and takes a sip from one of them as Draco follows him into the lift.

Harry’s room is at the end of the hall. A uniformed Auror slouches across the wall across from the door, flicking her eyes up as they approach, and nodding at Weasley before burying her nose back in her book. The cover is purple and white.

Weasley pushes open the door to Harry’s room with his hip. Draco follows him in, his nerves resurging, as Granger stands and comes to collect her tea from them. He hears Weasley’s quiet voice but the words don’t make their way into his brain. His attention is entirely on Harry, who lies in the bed looking peaceful and tired. They’ve dressed him in a plain white shirt, but Draco can see the thick bandages on his neck and shoulder that disappear under his collar. His glasses are folded on the bedside table, and Draco is reminded suddenly, painfully, of how Harry had looked curled up in the bed the night Draco had left.

He doesn’t realize he’s drifted closer to the bed until Granger calls his name.

“Malfoy, do you want anything? We’re going back down to the cafe -- I think I need something stronger than tea,” she says raising her paper cup. 

“Oh -- I can go--”

“Could you wait with him, actually? The Healer said he won’t be waking up for another few hours, but if anything happens you just pull that cord.” She indicates the tasselled pulley next to the headboard. “Thank you!”

The door thuds shut behind them, and Draco turns back to look at Harry. There is a pallor to his skin that Draco doesn’t like, and bags under his eyes. Upon further inspection, Draco can see the outlines of thick bandages halfway down his chest and encompassing his left shoulder. But he is breathing, and the diagnostic charms above his bed are pulsing a calming bluish-green, so Draco sinks gratefully into the chair beside the bed. He reaches out a hand, tentatively, before he really knows what he’s doing, and strokes the back of Harry’s wrist. Before he’s decided to do it, he’s flipping Harry’s hand over, watching the diagnostic charm carefully to make sure he isn’t hurting him. It doesn’t change, and Draco skates his fingertips across Harry’s palm, watching how his own pale fingers create shadows against the light brown of Harry’s skin, before he chances a glance at Harry’s wrist.

He was almost expecting it to not be there, but it is. The vines of the ivy twine around one side of the antlers, and the other is bracketed by stars. He turns his own arm over and just looks at them, marveling at the perfection of their match. It fills him up like a hot beverage, sliding down his spine and settling inside him, warm and comforting.

He turns Harry’s arm back over, all too aware that Weasley and Granger will be returning soon, but keeps his fingers resting lightly on Harry’s skin. He’s not sure how long he sits there, listening to Harry breathe, before the door to his room opens again.

Draco shoots up, knocking the chair he’d been sitting in, staring guiltily at Harry’s two best friends. Granger is holding the door open for Weasley, who is levitating three paper cups in front of him. She carries a white pastry bag.

“Would you like a coffee?” Granger asks, closing the door and grabbing one of the cups out of the air, holding it out to Draco. “We also got some muffins, I didn’t know what kind you’d like, but there’s blueberry, cranberry, and chocolate chip.” She holds the bag out to him as well, but Draco doesn’t take it, just stands there while this woman who he thought hated him offers him breakfast. When he doesn’t move, she frowns slightly.

“Draco? Are you alright?”

“You brought me coffee.”

“Yes. Do you like coffee?

Weasley grabs the other two coffees out of the air and plops down into the chair Draco had just vacated, placing one of them on the bedside table. He waves his wand and two more chairs appear. Granger presses the small paper cup into his hand -- he takes it automatically -- and sits down next to her -- boyfriend? Are they still a thing? She takes a muffin out of the bag, then hands it to Weasley, and when she turns around to ask Draco what he wants he shakes his head.

“I-- I’m not staying. I just wanted to see-- and now I have. Thank you.”

He turns and leaves, only realizing when he is back on the street outside St. Mungo’s that he’s still holding the coffee.

~~~

Draco tracks Harry’s recovery in the _Prophet._ On Monday they publish a complete account of the attack -- a break-in by two young wizards who hoped to steal the evidence held against their father, and panicked when attacked. Harry is reported as having suffered a blasting curse to the chest which caused a collapsed lung, several broken ribs, and blood loss. That night Draco dreams of the Ministry Atrium going up in flames while he runs across the polished floor, screaming Harry’s name. He wakes up shaking, tears at the corners of his eyes, and doesn’t go back to sleep.

Tuesday’s paper brings further details about the perpetrators, as well as the two other Aurors who were injured in the attack -- not as badly as Harry, of course. Draco dreams he is sitting at Harry’s bedside again, holding Harry’s hand in his and watching his soulmark fade off of his skin. He wakes in the morning in an awful mood, feeling simultaneously jittery and exhausted and vaguely sick, and keeps stopping at work to lift his sleeve and remind himself that his soulmark is still there.

On Wednesday the paper reports that Harry has been discharged from St. Mungo’s but has not yet been cleared to return to active duty. The reporter, clearly hoping to draw out the story, writes some sensationalized speculation on whether or not the attack was meant specifically for Harry, and how his recovery could still go wrong. Before going to bed, Draco takes half a dose of Dreamless Sleep, just to be safe.

~~~

Sometimes, Draco has decided, when things go to utter and complete shit, you’re allowed to mope. Normally, he is not one for self-indulgent displays of emotion -- that sort of behavior won’t serve you well in the Slytherin common room or the Dark Lord’s home base -- but he thinks this can be an exception. Pansy has been trying to distract him, including trying to lure him out of the house this weekend with reservations at Dragon’s Breath, an exclusive underground wizarding restaurant located below the London Eye, but he begged off.

“Draco,” she admonished him, “this table was _not_ easy to get. I had to call in a favor from Blaise, and you _know_ how few favors he owes me!”

“Then take him, and you can call it even.”

Pansy wrinkled her nose. “I’m not taking Blaise out on what is supposed to be a cheer-Draco-up obscenely expensive meal.”

“I’m sorry, Pansy. I just need to stay in this weekend.”

“Moping really doesn’t become you, you know.”

“I know. This is the last time, I promise.”

Pansy sighed dramatically and left his office at that point, but later he’d found a lovely aged Firewhiskey sitting on his desk, a green satin ribbon around the neck, and knew she wouldn’t hold it against him.

Friday night had involved hauling out his Pensieve, watching the memory of Harry fucking Draco the night of the masquerade ball, and then consuming far too much vintage Firewhiskey in one sitting before putting himself to sleep.

Saturday he cleans his flat, slowly, methodically, in the way that makes him feel like he has his life in some semblance of order. Then he takes a long shower, letting the spray flatten his hair against his scalp, trying not to remember the times that Harry Potter touched his skin. He puts on his softest pajamas and makes himself a cup of tea -- his stomach still slightly rebelling from the excess alcohol he consumed the night before -- then settles onto his couch with a cheesy novel and a fluffy blanket.

As soon as he’s settled, tea hovering within easy reach and book opened to where he left off, the charm indicating someone is waiting at his front door gives off a sighing fall of notes. Draco rolls his eyes and stands up, replacing his tea on the table and his feet into his slippers, and pads to his front door. He pulls it open without looking through the peephole and finds himself staring at Harry James Potter.

Draco’s breath and all his executive functioning leave him in the span of a second, and he finds himself with his hand still on the doorknob, mouth hanging slightly open, staring at Harry until he clears his throat and asks, “Are you going to invite me in?”

Draco stumbles backwards, letting Harry enter his townhouse, and carefully locks the door before he follows him, taking a moment to let the cool metal and smooth painted wood ground him into reality. A reality he feels he has slightly lost touch with in the last few minutes.

He leads Harry down the short hallway into his living room and gestures for Harry to sit, realizing too late that his quilt and book are still sitting in a pile where he’d abandoned them when he got up. Harry sees them and smiles, his expression almost fond, and Draco takes out his wand to send them both flying up the stairs to his bedroom. “Would you like anything to drink?” he asks stiffly, and Harry shakes his head no, so Draco goes to sit on the recently emptied couch.

Harry does not sit. He paces back and forth in front of Draco twice, before stopping and turning to look him in the eyes. He looks so earnest in that moment, the expression that always used to annoy Draco when they were in school -- he was used to people posturing, to everyone’s face being a mask, and it had frustrated him to no end how Harry seemed to have the entire school wrapped around his finger.

He knows now, of course, that it was never an act, and tries to be kind to his younger self for not knowing any better. This expression on Harry’s face, now, makes him think about the night of the ball -- Harry’s eager questions as he listened, _really_ listened, to everything Draco said, and the way his eyes lit up when he made a particularly good point in response. The memory is colored by alcohol and hope, and Draco’s chest aches.

“Ron told me you were at the hospital.”

Of all things, that was not what Draco was expecting Harry to say.

“Pardon?” he says. His throat is sticky and dry.

“At the hospital, after I was injured on that assignment. Ron told me you came to check on me, but you left before I woke up.” Harry’s brow furrows. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

Draco folds his hands together in his lap, squeezing his fingers tight. “Yes, it’s true. I saw the notice about what had happened in the Prophet, and I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Feeling unsteady, Draco gets to his feet, at the same moment as Harry takes another step closer to him. He looks at the whirls of blue and grey on the rug while he speaks. “I’m sorry I overstepped. I imagine you wanted to be with your friends at that moment in time and I -- I intruded. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He looks up, then, to see Harry’s face fall. His eyes are dim behind the lenses of his glasses. “Oh.” Harry hitches his shoulders up a little higher. “I thought it meant you’d changed your mind.”

“What?”

“You never owled or Floo’ed or -- I just assumed you weren’t interested, after all. I wasn’t going to be pushy.” Harry does that little shrug again, his neck tight with tension. “But, you came to the hospital, and-- I thought maybe you’d changed your mind. I thought I’d at least check.”

Draco’s mind is white and fuzzy. “You were expecting me to owl?”

“Yes, after,” Harry looks away, his jaw clenched. “After the ball, I mean, that morning, you left, but I figured you would owl, or Floo, or... I mean, it’s not that hard to find me, right? But you never did and it was obviously because you aren’t interested, clearly Ron was wrong when he said you seemed-- worried. I just-- I’ll just. Show myself out.”

Harry is practically crackling with tension. He moves toward the door, not looking at Draco, and Draco just -- reacts.

“Wait!” he cries out, and the never-used living room pocket doors fly out from the wall, slamming shut and sending up a huge cloud of dust. Harry turns to look at him, shocked, and the sofa he is standing in front of shoots forward, causing him to sit down hard. He is staring up at Draco, confusion and a little worry written clear across his face, and Draco should really apologize for the not-completely-accidental magic and the sudden increase in the amount of dust in his living room, but--

“I didn’t know you knew it was me!”

“What?” Harry’s face is confused, and hopeful, and slightly dust covered, and Draco loves him.

“That morning -- night -- I didn’t know you knew it was me. That’s why I left.” The words are difficult but he forces them out. “I knew because of the paper-- when they had that photo on your birthday -- I knew. I’d known. I just-- I didn’t think you’d want to know it was me. I didn’t think you’d want me if you knew it was me. I didn’t know you were waiting for me to owl. That’s why I left.”

Harry is getting up now, reaching out for Draco, the sun rising on his face, but the words keep tumbling out.

“I just-- you were hurt. I had to go. I _had_ to. I had to make sure-- but I should have never-- I didn’t know. I thought you couldn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Harry is shaking his head, but grinning, and his hands are on Draco’s arms and he feels like he can finally breathe again.

“I thought it was you. I recognized your voice -- and your hair -- I was pretty sure. But I didn’t hear from you, and I thought maybe I was wrong. And then when you came to visit, I knew I’d been right. And I thought -- hoped -- that it meant you wanted this.”

Draco reaches up, fingers trembling, and touches Harry’s bruised cheek. “You were right,” he whispers. “I want this.”

His heart is pounding, his mind racing, but everything stills at the first touch of Harry’s lips on Draco’s own.

~~~

Draco wakes up easily, slipping out of a strange dream involving a talking crup and into the awareness that he is lying on his back, Harry sharing his pillow, his arm flung across Draco’s chest. He can’t help but smile stupidly at the ceiling as he lifts his free arm and runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, where the curls become soft and wispy. Last night feels like something he dreamt, except for the part where his magic attempted to corral Harry into his living room -- the way Harry kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, until Draco pulled him down to sit on the couch and Harry swayed, admitting he was still getting his strength back and was exhausted. That had put a pin in any exciting plans for the rest of the night, but Harry had agreed to stay, had fallen asleep in Draco’s bed while he started a dishwashing spell and reset the wards. Harry had stirred when Draco crawled in beside him, waking enough to drape himself along Draco’s side before he softly began to snore.

He stretches now, blinking several times before his eyes open all the way, and Draco bites back a besotted smile. Harry lifts his arm off Draco’s chest and sticks his hand out, making a grabby motion; Draco uses his more advantageous position to pick up Harry’s glasses off the bedside table and hand them to him. He lifts his head slightly to shove them onto his nose, before resettling and finally looking up at Draco.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You look gorgeous in the morning.”

Draco feels himself flush, immediately; Harry lets out a delighted chuckle.

“You’re a menace,” he grouses, and Harry laughs again, scooting up so his face is level with Draco’s to kiss him.

“I’m sorry, how about a re-do? Good morning, Draco.”

Draco feels his traitorous skin beginning to heat again, but studiously ignores it. “Good morning, Harry. Can I offer you breakfast? You need to get your strength back up from your injury, you know.” His hand is still in Harry’s hair, but he lifts the other one now to push his hair off his forehead, checking for a temperature.

Harry laughs and shakes him off. “I’m fine, really -- cleared for normal activity and I’ll be back in the field next week. I ate dinner before I came over yesterday, I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Well, still. Breakfast?”

Harry grins. “I sort of wanted to cook you breakfast -- I didn’t get to last time, after all.”

He doesn’t sound angry, but still Draco feels embarrassed.

“I’m sorry--” he begins, but Harry cuts him off.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that -- I understand why you left. I’d just like to cook you breakfast, since I didn’t get to before, is all.”

Draco smiles. “I guess that would be alright.”

Harry grins, that boyish, _I’m-so-happy_ grin that Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having directed at him. He dips his head down to kiss Draco again, licking into his mouth this time, and shifts his lower body closer, making Draco aware for the first time that Harry is already hard.

He groans, tangling his hands in Harry’s hair to keep him in place, and bucks his hips up, his own cock filling quickly.

Harry breaks the kiss to take his glasses back off, practically throwing them onto the bedside table, and positions himself more on top of Draco, bringing their groins into direct contact. “I sort of thought we could do something else before breakfast, though,” he whispers, brushing kisses along Draco’s jawline, and Draco nods frantically.

“Yes, please,” he mutters, pulling Harry’s lips back to his own.

They kiss for long minutes, bodies naturally beginning a slow grind, until Draco is panting into Harry’s mouth, the front of his pajama bottoms sticky with precome.

“You should have less clothes on,” he says, picking at the hem of Harry’s shirt, and Harry obligingly rises onto his knees to let Draco pull it off of him. This brings their pricks into new, delicious contact, and they both moan as Harry ducks back down to suck on Draco’s lower lip.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rocking back and forth on Draco’s lap, “you feel amazing.”

“Merlin and Morgana,” Draco hisses, arching up as Harry begins to mouth at his nipples through his sleep shirt. “You should just take it off.”

Harry grins at him, lopsided and silly. “Okay,” he says, and the shirt Vanishes from Draco’s torso.

Draco lets out a shaky exhale. “I liked that shirt,” he says, as Harry brings his attention back to Draco’s now-bare chest, “but fuck me, that was hot.”

Harry blows warm air across Draco’s left nipple, and he shudders. “I was hoping you’d fuck me this time, actually,” he says, sounding suddenly hesitant. “If that’s okay?”

“Definitely,” Draco says, pulling Harry’s mouth back to his as he rolls them over. Harry lets out a startled laugh, then sighs as Draco begins to suck on his neck.

“Oh Godric, that feels amazing,” Harry says, running his fingers through Draco’s sleep-messy hair.

“Mmm,” Draco agrees, propping himself up on one elbow as his other hand quests downwards, finding and squeezing Harry’s erection and causing him to let out a deep moan. “Do you want me to get you ready?” he asks, and Harry sighs.

“Uh-- uh-- _yesss._ ”

Draco starts to push Harry’s trousers off his legs, letting Harry kick them off once they’re far enough down. He spends a few minutes stroking Harry’s cock while licking at his collarbone, then whispers the spell to coat his fingers in lube. He trails them lower, and Harry’s thighs fall open in anticipation.

“Please, Draco,” he groans, bucking his hips up in search of Draco’s fingers, and Draco shushes him, leaning in to kiss him again as he runs his fingers up and down over Harry’s hole. Harry whines, trying to spread his legs farther, and Draco takes pity on him, rubbing his middle finger over the tight pucker before pushing it inside. Harry breaks their kiss to throw his head back and curse, and Draco smiles as Harry’s hands find his shoulders and squeeze.

“Draco,” he breathes out shakily, and Draco begins to move, pumping his finger in and out slowly. He lifts himself up on his elbow and looks down, fascinated by how Harry’s thighs and stomach tremble in response to his touch. When Harry’s breathing evens out, Draco looks back up to see his soulmate watching him with bright green eyes.

“Another?” he asks, and Harry nods, biting his lip. The sight makes something primal in Draco growl, and he swoops down, capturing that lip between his own and soothing it with his tongue before pushing back into Harry’s body with two fingers.

They kiss messily as Draco fingers Harry, Harry’s hands stroking from his scalp down to his biceps, and when Harry begins to buck up to meet Draco’s thrusts he slips a third finger inside. Harry moans at that, loudly, and Draco spares a moment to be thankful that he lives alone and can enjoy every filthy, decadent sound that falls from Harry’s kiss-swollen lips.

He trails kisses across Harry’s cheek, licking at his earlobe and noting how Harry’s whole body tightens in response. He whines, and Draco laughs and takes pity on him, moving his lips to Harry’s jaw and then down to his collarbone. The lines of Harry’s body are beautiful, especially like this -- spread out naked in Draco’s bed, eyes closed in pleasure, cock red and hard against his stomach.

He presses his fingers deeper into Harry’s body, searching for his prostate, and is rewarded with Harry’s fingers clenching into Draco’s biceps as he lets out a shout.

Draco pulls his fingers out and leans in for a quick kiss, which becomes a long kiss as Harry wraps an arm around his neck and slides his tongue against Draco’s.

When he finally pulls away, it is to whisper against Harry’s lips. “Are you ready for more?”

Harry nods, wrapping his fingers around Draco’s shoulders and keeping them there as Draco conjures more lube and slicks himself, then positions himself between Harry’s thighs.

The room feels suddenly quiet. Draco almost thinks he can hear Harry’s heartbeat. When he looks down into his green eyes, he sees happiness and trust and affection reflected back to him, and it goes through him like a shudder.

“Ready?” he whispers. The word feels sacred.

“Yes, Draco,” Harry says, and Draco presses inside; “please, Draco,” and Draco begins to move; “more, Draco,” and he thrusts faster, sliding in and out of Harry’s body. Harry’s hands are on his body, and Harry is chanting his name like a prayer, over and over, and it’s the only thing Draco wants to hear, ever again, for the rest of his life. The moment feels infinite, but at the same time is over too soon, and Draco spills inside Harry’s body as the pleasure overwhelms him.

He can feel Harry still hard between them, and has a moment of embarrassment that passes swiftly when Harry grabs his cheeks and pulls him in for a kiss. “Touch me,” Harry whispers, and Draco carefully slides out. Harry’s arse opens easily for three of his fingers, and Draco begins to thrust gently, encouraged when Harry reaches a hand down and begins to stroke himself. He’s clearly close, sweat beading on his forehead and his breath coming in short gasps, and when Draco leans in to kiss at his neck Harry shudders and comes across his stomach.

Draco is quick to remove his fingers from Harry’s body and cast a cleaning charm over both of them, but then finds himself at a loss for what to do. He’s embarrassed that he didn’t last very long, and blindsided by the fact that this has even happened a second time when he was so sure he’d never get to have Harry this way again. He can’t help but feel guilty, too, when he remembers the way he had left Harry sleeping alone the last time.

“Draco.” Harry’s hand finds his and tugs him down onto his back. Harry grins from beside him, his whole being radiating satisfaction and contentment. “What are you thinking?”

Draco shakes his head. Harry rolls onto his side and presses a wet kiss to Draco’s cheek, before resting his head on Draco’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist, mirroring the way they woke up.

“Just thinking,” Draco says. “About last time.”

Harry trails his fingers over Draco’s bare chest. His knee rubs up against Draco’s thigh. “I’m not going to lie to you and say that waking up alone that morning didn’t feel...terrible,” he says. “But I’m not angry. I never really was.”

“Leaving you alone felt pretty fucking awful as well,” Draco says. “But I couldn’t stand the thought of your face in the morning when you woke up and realized it was me.”

Harry hums. “I’m glad it’s you,” he finally says. “It feels...right, in some way.” Draco catches Harry’s free hand in his own, twining their fingers together, and Harry squeezes it. “I’m glad we’re here now, in any case.”

They lie their together, letting their breathing sync, for several minutes. Draco feels rested, and for once there is nothing hovering at the back of his mind to steal his peace and quiet. It’s almost a surprise to realize his eyes have fluttered shut.

He pulls them back open with monumental effort. “Breakfast?” he says.

“Hmm?”

It’s unclear if Harry heard what he said, so Draco repeats himself anyway. “I was going to make you--” he pauses to yawn “--breakfast.”

“I will,” Harry sighs. “Sleep first.” He presses a kiss to Draco’s shoulder, and it warms his whole body. “Missed sleeping with you.”

Draco turns his head to the side, breathing in the shampoo-sweat smell of Harry’s hair. “Me too.”


	6. Epilogue

Draco closes his book and douses his desk light. He walks slowly out of his office and into the bedroom, pushing open the door to find Harry sitting up in bed, Quidditch Weekly held open in front of him, his nose adorably wrinkled. Draco cocks his hip against the doorway and watches, waiting for Harry to notice he’s there.

He’s rewarded a minute later with an eye roll when the other man looks up and sees him. “Enjoying the view?” Harry quips sarcastically, gesturing to his own bedhead and threadbare pajama shirt.

“I was, actually,” Draco replies, and Harry rolls his eyes again.

“You sap,” he says, but tips his head up obligingly when Draco crosses to the bed and drops a kiss onto his lips.

“Careful your eyes don’t get stuck like that, now,” Draco chastises. “You wouldn’t want to scare off the trainees.” He strips off his robes and steps into the closet to pull on his own pajamas. 

Harry snorts, and Draco hears the light swish as he levitates the magazine back onto the shelf. “Would you still love me if my eyes were messed up?” he asks as Draco comes back into the room.

“Harry, I hate to break it to you, but your eyes _are_ messed up. You’re practically blind,” Draco tells him, ducking when Harry tries to swat him.

“You know what I mean--” he hears Draco’s laughter and pouts, but pulls back the covers. “Oh, shut up.”

Draco crawls in and pulls them back over himself, wrapping his arms firmly around Harry’s torso. “I would love you no matter how messed up your eyes were,” he promises, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek.

“Wow, thanks,” Harry says sarcastically, but lifts his arm to tug Draco closer to him at the same time.

Draco is about to close his eyes when Harry suddenly shifts away from him, reaching for his wand on the bedside table. “What are you doing?”

“I forgot something, hold on.” Harry casts a wandless _Accio_ and a flat box flies out from the closet. He catches it and smiles at Draco.

“Is that for me?” Draco asks, pulling himself into a sitting position beside Harry.

“Yes.” Harry grins, the silly-affectionate grin that Draco loves.

“What for?”

“Just open it, and you’ll see.”

Draco pulls off the pale blue ribbon and rips away the thick navy paper, revealing a plain white box. He can feel Harry’s gaze on him, appraising, as he removes the lid and the tissue paper to reveal a dark wood photo frame holding a beautifully painted rendition of their soulmark. It’s larger than it appears in real life, and the artist has added a hint of color -- dark green along the leaves, a soft yellow on the star -- but it is a perfect replica of the ink that adorns their skin.

Harry leans his head on Draco’s shoulder. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers.

“It’s not our anniversary,” Draco says. He knows that date; in fact, he’s already planning to surprise Harry with a weekend getaway to celebrate.

“A year ago today, we got drunk and made out in the Hogwarts Great Hall, and I found out you were my soulmate.” Draco can hear the smile in Harry’s voice, and when he glances sideways at him, sure enough, his expression is happy and fond. “I know it’s not the happiest of memories, but it’s the start of our story for me, and I wanted to give you something to commemorate it.”

Draco runs a finger along the edge of the frame, careful not to smudge the glass. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Draco.”

Draco takes the box and sets it on the bedside table, then settles back into Harry’s arms. “Can you get the light?” he asks, and Harry casts a wordless _Nox._ When Harry kisses him goodnight, it feels just like the first time -- his whole body feels warm and melty in a way he will never get tired of. Eventually, though, he’s starting to fall asleep, and reluctantly pulls away.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Draco. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated :) Find me on tumblr @violetclarity.
> 
> Edit: not one but two lovely humans have made art of Draco and Harry's soulmarks in this story, and I couldn't be more happy/surprised/honored! rainsoakedhello did a gorgeous version which you can see [here](https://rainsoakedhello.tumblr.com/post/173576764261/i-read-violetclaritys-drarry-fic-antlers-and) on tumblr, and snowingalway made a beautiful interpretation for me for hd-remix (including a color version of the gift Harry gives Draco!), which you can find linked below. I kind of can't believe my story inspired anyone to art so <3 <3 <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] Soulmark: Antlers and Ivy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843054) by [snowingalway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowingalway/pseuds/snowingalway)




End file.
